In the realm of the Other Side, a sacred ritual known as the Diadem took place once every thousand years. Its purpose was to anoint the next monarch, a process overseen by the Pope of the Magic Council. This ritual, shrouded in secrecy, was designed to thwart interference, especially from the current sovereign.
"The time has come to select the candidates for the next monarch," murmured the old man, his fingers absently caressing his long, snowy beard. He turned his attention to a bustling young man and inquired, "Are all the preparations ready?"
"It's all in order, Your Holiness," the youth replied, his breath coming in short bursts as he adjusted his dull red hair.
"Good," the Pope nodded. His gaze shifted to a group of individuals standing nearby, cloaked in pristine white with emblems depicting various constellations. "Are all of you ready?"
"Yes," came the unified response from the group, standing tall and resolute.
Satisfied with their determination, the old man spoke with a gravelly voice, "If any of you wish to withdraw, now is your final chance."
"No, Master. You've raised us to assist you with this task. We are not common thieves who flee after reaping rewards. We will not repay your favor with treachery," they affirmed.
"If that is your intent, then stand firm and take your place in the Sacrificial Formation for the blood sacrifice," the old man commanded.
Obeying, the cloaked figures walked to their assigned positions, awaiting further instructions. As the Pope scanned the line of people, he let out a faint sigh and turned to the teenager beside him. "Let's commence the ritual."
Day-an nodded, beginning an incantation filled with incomprehensible hymns. In sync with his chants, the old Pope gestured gracefully, resembling an orchestra conductor. Gradually, a magic circle materialized above the cloaked figures. Once complete, the Pope's hand descended, pulverizing the people in formation into minuscule fragments. After a moment's silence, the blood, meat, and crushed bones coalesced into the form of a teenage girl, complete with ethereal black wings. The Pope and the teen stared, unblinking.
"Have you insects had your fill of gazing, or shall this one pluck your eyes from their sockets?" the girl's voice, sharp and chilling, snapped the two men from their stupor. Fear gripped them; sweat streamed down their faces. Without hesitation, they both fell to their knees, pleading for forgiveness.
"Oh, Messenger of the Magic Goddess Mistica, forgive us for our transgressions," they implored.
The devilish girl regarded them with mild disinterest. "You pitiful souls only sacrificed five hundred this time. I am not pleased, but the covenant holds. I will be lenient and grant you, filth, fifty magic totems. Do not disappoint me in the future." With her declaration, the devilish angel glowed brilliantly before disappearing. In her wake, swarms of vibrant butterflies emerged one after another. Greed illuminated the eyes of the old and the young as they gazed upon this spectacle.
